Gladstone
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock AU. John rescues a dog and brings him home. TRIGGER WARNING: John sees animal abuse.


"What is that?"

"It's a dog. I found a dog," John answered his wife, stepping carefully around the boxes of baby things that seemed to arrive at 221b on a daily basis now.

"Yes, I see that, where did he come from?" she made a face at the filthy animal, covered in muck, half-starved, probably flea-infested. Toby made himself scarce to the top of Sherlock's bookcase where he could watch the newcomer from a distance his tail poofed up, lashing back and forth.

"You know that case Sherlock was on today?" John asked.

"Yes…"

"Well, turns out one of this guy's kicks are dog-fights. Someone tipped him off that Sherlock was onto him so he started pitching dogs, literally,"

"What?!" Molly cradled her belly (six months down, three to go, thank you very much)

"Police and dog shelter were already on their way, caught almost all of them. They're going through the buildings now, making sure they don't miss any. This was the last one he had in his truck, pitched him out the window onto the motor-way."

"Oh John, no!" she was horrified, clearly. "He isn't hurt badly is he?"

"Not compared to the others," John had the dog wrapped in a towel, heading to the bathroom. "But his front legs are sprained, he's malnourished and dehydrated. Vet said to keep his legs wrapped and feed him slowly. I'm gonna give him a bath, is there anything to feed him?"

"Well…I mean there's Toby's food-"

"Fine, whatever there is," John said over his shoulder. Gently, he placed the dog in the tub. "Flea shampoo?"

"Under the cupboard, but it's for cats-"

"Doesn't matter, it'll do for now," he put the stopper in, testing the water first before dousing the dog in soap and lathering him up. Molly watched almost sick, as great lines of black and red trailed off the dog. The dog looked up at John with an expression that could only be relief and gratitude as the fleas washed off him. "Geeze look at you, poor thing," John murmured.

Washed and dried, John brought the dog back out to the living room, re-wrapping his legs.

"What are you doing?" he asked, noticing Molly was at the stove.

"I looked up what to feed dogs, if you don't have any food for them, the online vet said ground beef and rice," she nodded to the pan. She turned to look and smiled. "Oh he's lovely, John!"

"He's a handsome fellow," he agreed. Once scrubbed up, the dog turned out to be a brindle bull-dog. Sherlock came in at last, looking from the stove to John, then back to Molly and then finally the bulldog.

"So you're keeping it then?"

"Yep," John answered. "Thought Gladstone was a good name for him."

"Wait- what?" John looked up at Molly.

"Well…why else would I bring him home?"

"John, we haven't even- we have a cat already, and a baby on the way, we can't possibly take in a dog as well, a puppy at that! He probably isn't even house-trained!"

"He's paper-trained, sort of," John muttered.

"John, no, we cannot- Toby doesn't like dogs." As if reiterating her point, Toby growled from his perch. Sherlock reached up to scratching him behind the ears, but the cat would have none of it, hissing and spitting before climbing further up the bookcase, well away from the detective's reach.

"I don't like cats but I let you keep Toby, and he's a menace!"

"Who says this dog won't be just as bad? And Toby can't help it!" she retorted hotly, feeling overly-protective of her cat at that moment. Toby had gotten her through some very rough patches of single-hood. It wasn't her fault that Toby liked to climb drapes or knock full coffee-mugs off the table (while looking at you), or that he knew how to open the fridge.

"If you get a cat, I get a dog," John said. Molly sighed heavily, he didn't say so, but he meant _"Let it be."_ There was more in John's tone than simply worrying for the poor creature. Molly knew all about that, she volunteered at the animal shelter when she could, she hated seeing animals abused, and this dog John had brought home was surely the worst. But the idea of keeping the dog was not something she had ever considered. She watched as John carefully wrapped the puppy's legs, speaking quietly to it, and was suddenly reminded of a picture in the album. It had been taken in Afghanistan; he was carrying one of the dogs from the K-9 units, badly wounded. There were more pictures of John, wrapping dogs up, tending the wounds, and even bedding down with the ones in the med tents. Dogs were as much a part of his army life as the soldiers around him. Molly watched her husband for a time, carefully combing the dog for any more bugs, feeding it slowly, and making sure to keep the dog hydrated (if need be he could give it a bag of fluid, they had the IV drips on hand). She realized he saw this dog as a soldier. Whatever he'd seen earlier that day had taken him back to his army days. Whatever that was, he'd tell her if he wanted to, but for now she stood back and let him be.

~O~

The next day when Molly went to work she made a quick stop on the way, promising the shop clerk she would return at the end of the day, her sketch and instructions in the worker's hand. Merely dropping Mycroft's name did wonders, and they promised it would be ready by that evening.

"Here," Molly held out a bag to John that night.

"What's this?"

"It's for the dog," he took it from her, removing the tissue paper to find a box within, as well as a few toys and a sweater.

"He's little," she explained quickly. "And…until he fattens up he'll need to keep warm."

"It's got cats on it," John said,

"That's all they had!"

"Mm," he tapped the box. "What's this?"

"Open it and see," She took the sweater, crossing the room to where the puppy was curled up. John had run to the shops as well, picking up a dog bed and dishes. Gently, so as not to hurt his front legs she eased the dog into the sweater, patting him lightly. She looked up to see John pull out the leather collar, big enough that the puppy would grow into it. A rectangular copper plate was screwed into the thick band, "Gladstone" engraved in bold letters. Clipped to the buckle hung a dog license and a rabies vaccination tag. "We'll have to get him tagged, in case he gets lost, it doesn't cost much," she said quietly. John held the collar, smiling, his thumbs tracing the letters.

"Thank you, Molly, this is lovely." She moved over to the couch, sitting down. She scrubbed his back a moment, sighing. "I should have called you first," he said finally. "I'm sorry I didn't, it _is_ a big decision, taking on another body in the house, especially at a time like this…" John shook his head. "But…Molly…I saw him _flung out a moving car_, and when I picked him up…" he shrugged helplessly. "A lot of those dogs the police found…they have to be put down, all sick and deformed and half-eaten by each other, lots of others will need special training for months before they can even be considered for families. This one is just a little one. I just had to take him." He couldn't say what he meant, and it frustrated him. How could he explain how sick he felt, watching an animal flung out of a moving car, running over to pick it up and the first thing the dog did was lick his face? He didn't make to bite him. John wondered if the dog had ever been petted before, probably not. He couldn't do anything for those other dogs, but this one he could.

She squeezed his hand, lacing her fingers in his.

"I _do_ understand," she said gently. "It's alright." He squeezed her knee in response, finally leaning over and kissing her. "I still think he'll be a menace." He laughed then.

"So's Sherlock, so's your cat, and so's you're mum. We manage."

"Oi!" she swatted at his backside as he stepped by her. He laughed, and she reached for his hand.

"We'll manage," he promised. "We always have." Molly went over to the dog, carefully fixing the collar around his neck. It hung off him comically, but he wagged his tail at her, making to lick her nose. "Let's have a picture," John said and went to find the old Rolleiflex Molly kept for special occasions. She pulled Toby from his perch, holding him under her arm, and Gladstone settled carefully on her belly, ears perking each time he felt the baby kick under his paws.

"There's a good one," John laughed, peering through the viewfinder and turning the crank. "Have to get Sherlock in one of these when he gets home," he chortled as Molly tried to juggle both pets.

Eventually, Molly came around to liking Gladstone. It was hard to hate a dog that was impossibly cute, especially given that despite his sprained legs, he hobbled after her. He would fall asleep against her belly, listening to the baby's heartbeat. And when she went into labor, Gladstone went barking and baying around the house until Sherlock and John came running to see what the matter was. It was that day that Molly decided Gladstone would be a good dog after all.


End file.
